Carver - Ultramarine: Poems

FIRST VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EBOOK EDITION, MAY 2015 Copyright 1986 by Tess Gallagher All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Ltd., Toronto. Originally published, in hardcover, by Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, in 1986. Subsequently published in trade paperback by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, in 1987. Vintage is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC. Acknowledgment is gratefully given to the following magazines, in which some of the poems in this book originally appeared: The Atlantic: Sinew; Crazyhorse: Bonnards Nudes, The Young Fire Eaters of Mexico City; The New Yorker: Kafkas Watch, Cutlery; Northwest Review: The Phone Booth, What I Can Do, Powder-Monkey, From the East, Light, Egress, Limits, Asia; The Ohio Review: Simple, The Projectile; The Ontario Review: The Autopsy Room, Its Course, Migration; The Paris Review: Hope, Sleeping; Poetry: Shiftless, The Sensitive Girl, Balsa Wood, The Rest, Mother, Mesopotamia, Stupid, A Tall Order, The River; Ploughshares: An Afternoon, Cadillacs and Poetry, This Morning, Union Street: San Francisco, Summer 1975, Vigil; Scripsi (Australia): The Window, Evening, The Phenomenon, Scale, The Meadow, Heels, The Schooldesk; Seneca Review: The White Field, Where the Groceries Went, The Gift; Tendril: The Garden, In the Lobby of the Hotel del Mayo; TriQuarterly: Sweet Light, The Mail; Zyzzyva: The Pen.

Other poems appeared in limited editions published Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Carver, Raymond.
Ultramarine.
I. Title.
[PS3553.A7894U58 1987] 811 .54 87-40081 Vintage Books Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-0-394-75535-9
eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-97057-7 www.vintagebooks.com v3.1 TESS GALLAGHERSick with exile, they yearn homeward now, their eyes
Turned to the ultramarine, first-star-pierced dark
Reflected on the dark, incoming waves. DEREK MAHON , Mt. Gabriel, from
Antarctica, 1985 (The Gallery Press)

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This morning was something. A little snow lay on the ground. The sun floated in a clear blue sky. The sea was blue, and blue-green, as far as the eye could see.

Scarcely a ripple. Calm. I dressed and went for a walkdetermined not to return until I took in what Nature had to offer. I passed close to some old, bent-over trees. Crossed a field strewn with rocks where snow had drifted. Kept going until I reached the bluff.

Where I gazed at the sea, and the sky, and the gulls wheeling over the white beach far below. All lovely. All bathed in a pure cold light. But, as usual, my thoughts began to wander. I had to will myself to see what I was seeing and nothing else. (And I did see it, for a minute or two!) For a minute or two it crowded out the usual musings on what was right, and what was wrongduty, tender memories, thoughts of death, how I should treat with my former wife. (And I did see it, for a minute or two!) For a minute or two it crowded out the usual musings on what was right, and what was wrongduty, tender memories, thoughts of death, how I should treat with my former wife.

All the things I hoped would go away this morning. The stuff I live with every day. What Ive trampled on in order to stay alive. But for a minute or two I did forget myself and everything else. I know I did. For when I turned back I didnt know where I was.

Until some birds rose up from the gnarled trees. And flew in the direction I needed to be going.

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from a letter by Renoir DONT FORGET: Palette knife Scraping knife Essence of turpentine BRUSHES? Pointed marten-hair brushes Flat hog-hair brushes Indifference to everything except your canvas. The ability to work like a locomotive. An iron will.

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As he writes, without looking at the sea, he feels the tip of his pen begin to tremble.

The tide is going out across the shingle. But it isnt that. No, its because at that moment she chooses to walk into the room without any clothes on. Drowsy, not even sure where she is for a moment. She waves the hair from her forehead. Sits on the toilet with her eyes closed, head down.

Legs sprawled. He sees her through the doorway. Maybe shes remembering what happened that morning. For after a time, she opens one eye and looks at him. And sweetly smiles.

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And all at length are gathered in. LOUISE BOGAN By the time I came around to feeling pain and woke up, moonlight flooded the room.

My arm lay paralyzed, propped like an old anchor under your back. You were in a dream, you said later, where youd arrived early for the dance. But after a moments anxiety you were okay because it was really a sidewalk sale, and the shoes you were wearing, or not wearing, were fine for that. Help me, I said. And tried to hoist my arm. But it just lay there, aching, unable to rise on its own.

Even after you said What is it? Whats wrong? it stayed putdeaf, unmoved by any expression of fear or amazement. We shouted at it, and grew afraid when it didnt answer. Its gone to sleep, I said, and hearing those words knew how absurd this was. But I couldnt laugh. Somehow, between the two of us, we managed to raise it. This cant be my arm is what I kept thinking as we thumped it, squeezed it, and prodded it back to life.

Shook it until that stinging went away. We said a few words to each other. I dont remember what. Whatever reassuring things people who love each other say to each other given the hour and such odd circumstance. I do remember you remarked how it was light enough in the room that you could see circles under my eyes. You said I needed more regular sleep, and I agreed.

Each of us went to the bathroom, and climbed back in bed on our respective sides. Pulled the covers up. Good night, you said, for the second time that night. And fell asleep. Maybe into that same dream, or else another. I lay until daybreak, holding both arms fast across my chest.

Working my fingers now and then. While my thoughts kept circling around and around, but always going back where theyd started from. That one inescapable fact: even while we undertake this trip, theres another, far more bizarre, we still have to make.